


Open Secrets

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-02
Updated: 2006-08-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 08:59:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8706022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Not actually pr0n as such (yet), but there is a lot of thinking very hard and in great detail about pornish things. Bad words. Angst and woe.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Open Secrets

 

Warnings: Wincest. NC-17. Not actually pr0n as such (yet), but there is a lot of thinking very hard and in great detail about pornish things. Bad words. Angst and woe. Biggish spoilers for "Shadow" and "Scarecrow," possible small spoilers for other episodes, but it is late and I am tired and I am not certain.  
  
\---  
  
The plan is to head south and put at least one state line between Chicago and the Impala's rear bumper by dawn.   
  
It doesn't quite work out that way.  
  
Dean isn't planning on getting pulled over tonight, but wouldn't _that_ just be the perfect fucking end to a perfect fucking day? For some state trooper or local Officer Friendly to flash the red-and-blues and find them both covered with blood and claw marks?   
  
So just in case, they take a break to clean themselves up about an hour or so down the road at a rest stop that nobody else seems to have noticed. It's mostly dark and kind of overgrown, but there's a weak little lightbulb in the restroom and it's good enough.   
  
When the taps give them hot and cold running rust, Dean goes back to the car to fetch a plastic jug from the trunk, filled with much cleaner water for washing their bloody hands and faces. They do a quick clean-up on the worst of the wounds with holy water and peroxide--the rest will need to wait until they're somewhere cleaner and better-lit. They change out of their bloody clothes and bundle them up into messy wads to be stashed in the trunk.  
  
Throughout this whole process, they barely say two words to each other, which is probably for the best. They're both exhausted and hurting, Dean's still pissed off at Sam, Sam's still pissed off at ...well, it's tough to say exactly _who_ Sam's pissed off at. Maybe Dean, maybe Dad, maybe both of them, maybe someone else entirely, but he's definitely pissed off at _someone_ and it's a fairly safe bet that if either of them says anything deeper or more meaningful than "you bring a towel?" or "gimme my socks," one of them is going to fucking _snap_ and Dean's got a bad feeling it's going to be him.   
  
They don't look at each other, either. Or at least Dean doesn't look at Sam--for a completely different reason he's not going to think about--and he prefers to think Sam's doing likewise.  
  
They keep this up for the next three hours, until even the Zeppelin Dean cranked up full blast so he'd have something to listen to besides all the shit running through his head isn't enough to keep him awake. There's a little town called Assumption up ahead, about three blocks and one stoplight worth of civilization, but it's got a motel and that's all that matters.  
  
Dean pulls into the parking lot, kills the engine, and gropes around under the seat until he finds a battered Houston Astros cap somewhere between a spare box of salt and a two-week-old pack of Marlboro Reds he honestly thinks Sam doesn't know about. He shakes out the worst of the dust and fuzzballs and puts it on, pulling it low enough to cover the worst of the daeva tracks on his forehead. It looks stupid on him and it hurts like a bitch, but both of those beat having to make up stories about bears or mountain lions or some shit to tell whoever's manning the check-in counter.  
  
"Stay here," he says to Sam as he opens the car door, and Sam grunts something that passes for "okay." He feels kind of dumb about that for a second; they're in a town barely big enough to qualify for a stoplight with not much else in the way of civilization for a good fifty to a hundred miles around, where exactly would Sam _go?_   
  
Except there's this thing where Sam's done it before, just a couple of months ago in fact, out in the middle of fucking _nowhere,_ and... well, that spot's still just a little sore. Actually, that spot _was_ "just a little sore" until Sam ripped the scab right off the son of a bitch a few hours ago. Because, really, what better thing was there for Sam to start babbling about than _leaving_ when they were about to go have a not-so-friendly chat with some psycho bitch Sam had gotten mixed up with when he'd--wait for it--fucking _left_ the last time?  
  
Dean's just going to stop thinking about that now because it's making him want to punch a brick wall or something, and it's going to be weird enough if the check-in clerk starts getting suspicious about the cuts and bruises the stupid baseball cap isn't covering up. If he adds "wall-punchingly pissed off" to the equation, that drops the chances of them getting a room to approximately fuckall and he really, really doesn't feel like sleeping in the goddamn car tonight.  
  
Fortunately, the check-in clerk this time of night looks like someone's grandmother, and walking in with cash in hand and looking like ten miles of bad road, plus judicious use of the words "Chicago" and "mugged," earns Dean a few concerned clucking noises and a few bucks off the normal going rate for a double. For a moment, he considers hauling Sam in here to make sad puppy faces and look like another fifty miles of bad road and see if the lady will knock off a few more bucks, and then he asks himself what the _fuck_ he's thinking.  
  
The room is at the end of the building, which is good. The room next door appears to be empty, which is better. At least if one of them _does_ snap and start yelling in here, there won't be any annoyed neighbors calling the law on them.  
  
They bring in more crap from the trunk than either of them thinks they'll actually need. Shotgun, regular shells, salt shells, handguns, lead bullets, silver bullets, knives, trinkets, holy water, blessed white seven-day jar candles, salt, sage, the works. Sam says too much is better than not enough, and that much, Dean can't argue with. They also bring in the first aid kit, so if nothing else they can at least slap some bandages on all their cuts and claw marks.  
  
Dean salts the living shit out of the threshold and the windowsills, and Sam inks every protective rune and sigil and doodad he knows on slips of paper and tapes them to the door. He knows a lot of them. The door is practically wallpapered in them by the time he's done. Dean thinks this would be what a five-year-old Merlin's parents' refrigerator would look like. If they'd had refrigerators in the Dark Ages or whatever, anyway.   
  
Just for good measure, Dean lights up some sage and waves smoke at the door, the windows, the air vents, and every tiny little crack and nail hole he can find in the walls, then leaves it to burn itself out in the ashtray. The smoke stings a little in his eyes and the back of his throat if he catches a strong whiff of it but it's a good sting, like peroxide on a fresh cut, the killing-nasty-stuff kind of sting. By the time the sage quits smoldering, Dean finds he's not _quite_ so teeth-grindingly pissed anymore.   
  
Sam must have caught a good noseful of it too, because he's mostly lost that _I am trying to kill something with my mind_ look he's been wearing since they left Chicago. Or maybe he's just too tired to be properly bitchy anymore. Whatever. He eyes the bathroom door for a minute.   
  
"You want the shower first?" he finally asks Dean. Dean just shakes his head and flaps a hand at the bathroom, and Sam nods and digs his for-sleeping clothes out of his bag. "'Kay."  
  
The bathroom door closes. A minute later, the shower comes on.   
  
Dean flops bonelessly down on one of the beds. His fingers wander down to the fly of his jeans. Even as tired and sore and pissy as he is right now, his dick still seems a little interested in the squeaking of taps and the sound of rushing water. He halfheartedly fidgets with the button for a while, never actually undoes it.   
  
Pavlov's dog drooled at the sound of a bell. Dean gets hard at the sound of a shower.   
  
See, he usually jerks off while Sam's in the shower. He doesn't really remember when it became a habit, but he does it just about every time. It's why he tends to let Sam have the shower first unless he's covered in critter guts or something. It's also the closest he's _ever_ going to let himself come to... well, to doing any of the things he'll never admit to thinking about doing to Sam.   
  
He'll usually lay on his bed with his eyes squeezed shut and his hand around his dick and think about the fact that Sam is naked and wet behind one thin door and one flimsy plastic curtain just a few steps away, and he'll try to forget for a few minutes how goddamn _sickandwrong_ it is to be just thinking about Sam like that, let alone getting _hard_ for Sam like that. For all the bitching he does about Sam taking such ridiculously long showers, he's actually grateful for it because Sam's never caught him doing this. Not before Chicago, not before Stanford, _never._ Not even that one time when Dean pondered a few theories on _why_ Sam took such ridiculously long showers and imagined what exactly he might be doing in there. And if those mental images weren't making him batshit-crazy-horny enough, Sam made this--this _noise_ at one point. The kind of noise that probably actually meant someone next door had flushed the toilet and fucked up the water temperature, but sounded _way_ too close to the noises he was making in Dean's little daydreams there, and Dean came so hard he couldn't even work up the coordination to clean up and zip his pants until he heard the water shut off.  
  
Dean flicks absently at the button a couple more times and then says _fuck it._ Right now, he's just too damn tired and too damn sore--mentally, physically, and emotionally.  
  
And he's still wearing the stupid baseball cap.   
  
Dean yanks it off with intent to fling it at the bathroom door in a fit of halfassed pique. He does not think about the possibility that the damn claw marks might have decided to bleed a little more when he scraped the damn hat down over them. Which they had.  
  
Or that the blood might have dried just enough to make the damn hat _stick_ and hurt like a motherfucker and open the damn claw marks up again when yanked free. Which it does.  
  
"Son of a _bitch!_ "   
  
Instead of throwing the stupid hat, Dean just lets it fall on the floor and dives for the box of crappy motel tissues on the dresser. He's a little too busy trying to not bleed and doing a pretty shitty job of it to care about the hat.  
  
The shower shuts off.   
  
Dean's honestly not sure which would be worse: Sam walking in on him jerking off, or Sam walking in on him bleeding all over the goddamn room.   
  
So while he's looking for the first aid kit, he prays to every benevolent deity whose name he knows that Sam will get dressed very slowly, brush his teeth, bandage up his claw marks--no, scratch that, he'd have to come out of the bathroom and grab the first aid kit to do that and speaking of which, where the _hell_ is it?--maybe decide to take a fifteen-minute nap on the bathroom floor, anything that'll buy Dean a few minutes to deal with this shit himself.  
  
The benevolent deities seem to have shut down the request lines for the night.  
  
The bathroom door opens, and Sam finds him digging for the first aid kit with one hand, pressing a bloody wad of Kleenex to his forehead with the other, and cussing up a blue streak.   
  
And, by the way, still half-hard.  
  
Shit. Shit _shit._  
  
It's not like Dean can actually, y'know, read Sam's mind or anything. But he's got these _looks_ he'll give sometimes. Dean's built up a fairly extensive mental catalog of them. There's the _I am killing you with my brain_ look. There's the _I am a sad puppy and you will do my bidding or I will guilt you until you cry_ look. There's the _okay, whatever, don't listen to me, I'll say "I told you so" later_ look.  
  
Right now, Sam's wearing the _Oh my God, what the_ hell _did you do to yourself this time_ look, and for some ridiculous reason that just pisses Dean off even more.  
  
"Oh shit, Dean--"  
  
Dean looks the hell _away_ from Sam and goes back to hunting for the first aid kit. "I'm fine."  
  
"Yeah. Sure." Sam seems to know exactly where the damn first aid kit is, and he fishes it straight out of one of the bags Dean hasn't gotten around to rifling through. "You look great. Here, sit down, let me--"  
  
"I got it." Dean makes a grab for the kit, and Sam holds it just out of reach. "I said I've _got_ it, Sam. Give it here."  
  
" _Jesus,_ Dean, just let me look at that--" Sam clamps his free hand down on Dean's shoulder and tries to steer him towards the foot of the nearest bed.   
  
Dean isn't having _any_ of that shit. "Would you get _off_ me?" he snaps, jerking backwards out of Sam's grip. "Just give me the damn first aid kit."   
  
"Stop--" and of course Sam isn't having any of his not having it. Dean grabs for the kit again, finds it held just out of reach again. "--being an asshole. And sit. _Down._ "  
  
Dean starts to yank his arm back when Sam grabs it again, opens his mouth to tell Sam to get the fuck off him again, and then decides he's way too damn tired to argue about it anymore. "Fine," he huffs, parking his ass on the foot of the bed and shutting his eyes because he's already uncomfortable with having Sam stare at him and poke him while his dick's still half-awake; adding Sam's hip into the equation, covered by nothing but the hem of a T-shirt and a pair of boxers and hovering right at eye level, pushes it to a whole new level of _no._  
  
He also decides that whenever Sam gets done playing nurse he's going to go straight out to the car and chain-smoke the rest of that pack under the seat. Part of him doesn't like that plan, because he's still convinced Sam doesn't know about his occasional stress relief cigarettes and doesn't want him to find out. Part of him asks why he's worrying about that now, when he's just been reminded yet again that when Sam says _I'd do anything for you_ , what he really means is _well, anything but stay with you_ and picking at _that_ fresh scab is almost enough to get him good and pissed again and kill the low-grade erection he's been trying to will into submission for the last few minutes.  
  
Almost.  
  
Until Sam curls one huge hand over the side of his neck and tips his head back with a thumb under his chin, anyway. Maybe it's just Dean's imagination, or maybe even a little wishful thinking, but it almost seems like there's a little possessive edge to that move. There's _some_ kind of edge there. It's just sharp enough to chip a few little holes in the anger and let some of the shit churning underneath it trickle out, some of that sad little stream of _please_ and _Sammy_ and _don't leave me_ that's been threatening to spill out of him every time he opened his mouth all night.  
  
It's kind of a mixed blessing when Sam's free hand dabs something that feels like straight-up lye onto his forehead with something that feels like 0-grit sandpaper. Dean yelps something that might be "mother _fuck!_ " and flinches away from it, but at least it shuts his brain the hell up for a second.   
  
"Sorry," Sam mutters above him. There's a quiet sloshing sound.  
  
Dean opens his eyes a crack and sees the peroxide open on the nightstand and a wad of clean gauze in Sam's hand. He mumbles something along the lines of "'s cool" and shuts his eyes again. It still stings like hell when Sam presses peroxide-soaked gauze against the claw marks again, but this time he's expecting it and all it gets out of him is a quick little hissed-in breath.   
  
Sam pauses once, presumably to inspect the claw marks judging by the way that thumb under Dean's chin and those long fingers along Dean's jaw are poking and prodding him into turning his head this way and that.   
  
Dean tells himself and tells himself again that he will _not_ lean into Sam's touch.  
  
"'S not so bad," Sam finally murmurs, dabbing at the marks with something kind of greasy. Neosporin, probably. "I mean, it _looks_ pretty ugly, but they're not all that deep. Couple inches lower, though... Jesus, Dean, you almost lost an eye." Sam presses a clean gauze pad onto the scratches and leaves it there, and there's the sound of tape being pulled and torn. "... _both_ of them." Dean hisses out another soft curse as Sam's thumb lights on his eyebrow and gently tugs upward to inspect the cut he'd damn near forgotten about, the one over his right eye. "I think this one might need stitches."  
  
Dean shakes his head.   
  
"You sure?"  
  
"Just put a Band-Aid on it or something, huh?"   
  
Sam huffs out a stubborn little sigh that ruffles Dean's hair, but he says "Okay," and goes for the peroxide again.   
  
Okay, ow, Jesus _fuck_ that one stings. Maybe it's deeper than he thought. And maybe he really should let Sam sew it up, but he'd rather not. It's not that he's afraid of needles, it's not that he doesn't trust Sam with one--this wouldn't be the first time Sam stitched him up, or the second, or the sixteenth--but he's just a little skittish about Sam bringing a needle this close to his eye when he's this damn tired. He can always do it in the morning.  
  
_If Sam's still here,_ that sore spot within adds. _If he doesn't, y'know, change his fucking mind and bail. Again._  
  
Dean grinds his teeth to keep that from coming out of his mouth. He never wants to let Sam out of his sight again. At the exact same time, he doesn't even want to be in the same goddamn _state_ as Sam. Seriously, how the hell is that even possible?  
  
Sam presses that wad of wet gauze against that cut a little too hard for comfort, and Dean hisses and bites back a long string of four-letter words that threatens to spill through his clenched teeth. "Shit. Sorry," Sam says immediately. "I'm trying not to hurt you."  
  
Something about the words or the tone or some damn thing knocks a few more holes in that angry shell and scores a direct hit on the raw sore spot underneath it. _You weren't trying too goddamn hard earlier, were you?_ it spits in reply, the words all bitter black venom, and Dean bites his tongue hard to keep himself from saying _that_ shit out loud.   
  
Sam stops. Just for a second. Takes in a breath like he's going to say something. Doesn't say it and goes back to dabbing at that cut, a little more gently this time at least.  
  
_All talking about going back to school and looking at me like I'm supposed to be_ happy _about it,_ that sore spot grumbles on. _Seriously, what the fuck happened to "I think you're stuck with me"?_   
  
Sam stops again and hisses out a curse as he fumbles something and drops it on the floor.  
  
_I thought you meant it. I really did. But hey, at least you gave me some fucking_ warning _this time, huh? At least this time I'm not gonna come home from the grocery store one day and find you and Dad ripping each other's skin off and your bags packed and a fucking_ taxi _waiting outside for you and that be the first damn thing I hear about it, right?_  
  
There's a prolonged crinkling noise that suggests Sam is having undue difficulty unwrapping some Band-Aids. Two of them, it seems; the little tiny ones, totally useless for covering up a big-ass cut but fine for holding it closed. Maybe it's just Dean's imagination, but Sam's hands feel a little shaky as they press the Band-Aids down across the cut.  
  
_Thanks a lot, Sammy, that's_ really fucking thoughtful _of you--_ Dean bites down on his tongue even harder, bites down until he tastes blood, because all this shit is dangerously close to his vocal cords-- _but don't_ even _stand there and talk like you care whether or not you're_ hurting me _when all you give a shit about is running back to college and_ fucking leaving me again! _I can't do this again, I can't deal with losing you again, I can't fucking deal with it, I want you to stay with me, I_ need _you to stay with me, don't leave me again, please don't leave me, oh Jesus Sammy DON'T LEAVE ME--_  
  
The mattress squeaks as Sam sits down heavily on its edge, right next to Dean; he makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a groan, and when Dean opens his eyes to see what's up he finds Sam rubbing his forehead and staring at the floor.   
  
"I heard you the first time," Sam says.  
  
Well, that makes _no damn sense whatsoever._   
  
Dean opens his mouth to ask Sam if he's okay... and what the _hell_ he's talking about.   
  
He gets as far as "wh" before it hits him.  
  
Oh fuck.  
  
Oh _fuck._  
  
Okay, no. Dean's not hearing this right. He can't be.   
  
"'Don't leave me.'"  
  
Dean's thoughts... coming out of Sam's mouth.  
  
Oh holymother _fuck._  
  
And now Sam's babbling, explanation spilling out of him like water, hands held up in a gesture that might mean _hey, hear me out_ or _I didn't mean to_ or both. "I didn't catch on in Chicago, I thought I was just imagining that, it was kind of--kind of like when you can't quite get a radio station tuned in good, you know, a lot of static but you can still kinda pick out the song if you listen really--"  
  
"Wait." Dean shakes his head and stares wide-eyed at Sam. "Wait. _Wait._ " He blinks a couple of times. He's sure he's not hearing this, and if he _is_ hearing it Sam's got to be yanking his chain something fierce. "So--what, you can _read my mind_ now? Is _that_ what you're telling me!?"  
  
Sam shrugs a little. "Uh... kind of. Sometimes."  
  
It occurs to Dean then that his little silent rant and steady stream of _don't leave me_ is not the worst thing Sam could have picked up from him. The blood drains from his face, his fingers go a little numb, and there's something cold and clammy squirming around in his stomach. "Oh Jesus," he croaks.  
  
Sam doesn't seem to notice. Thank God for that. "Not all the time, just--things you _almost_ say out loud, like that--it's like it gets stuck right about _here--_ " Sam holds a hand up across his throat, right under his chin-- "and nothing comes out, or something else comes out instead--"  
  
Dean's brain serves up a quick flash of what _would_ be the worst thing for Sam to pick up. It's just a flicker of memory, there and gone again, and that in itself probably isn't enough for Sam to catch. But how long has this shit been going on? What about _before_ Chicago? Hell, before _Stanford?_ All the times he's ever jacked off to the sound of Sam taking a shower? The kind of shit he thought about while he was doing it? Not to mention all those times in the car in the middle of the night or in some motel room somewhere, when Sam lay asleep just a few feet away and Dean wanted _so goddamn badly_ to--  
  
To--  
  
"Oh _Jesus!_ " Dean's off the bed and backing away from it and Sam before he even realizes he's doing it, clutching at his head like he really thinks that's going to keep Sam from seeing what's in it. Sam-- _damn_ it, Sam's off the bed and after him just as fast, spluttering something that might be apologies or more explanations or reassurance or some damn thing and reaching out for Dean's shoulder and _God,_ the last thing he needs right now is for Sam to _touch_ him. Dean flails backwards, out of reach, and Sam's fingertips just graze the fabric of his shirt. "Don't!"  
  
"Dean--" Sam reaches for him again, catches a handful of shirt, and hangs on. Doesn't he get it!? Does he have _no fucking clue_ what he's doing? "Look, I'm sorry, I didn't do it on purpose, it just--"  
  
" _Don't!_ " Dean wrenches his sleeve out of Sam's grasp and stumbles back a few more steps toward the door. "Don't--don't touch me, Sam. Okay? Just _don't._ "  
  
"It's not--" Sam shakes his head and makes that incredulous sighing-laughing noise again. " _It doesn't work that way!_ It's--Jesus, Dean, I'm not--I'm not like the damn _shapeshifter,_ okay? I'm not going to go digging around in your head just to mess with you like that! I couldn't do it even if I _wanted_ to." He scrubs the heel of his hand over his eyes and huffs out a loud sigh, and Dean suddenly feels like the world's biggest asshole.  
  
"It's not that," Dean finally says, rubbing a hand over his own eyes and flinching--he keeps forgetting about that one cut over his eye. "It's not you. It's--" Dean clears his throat, tries to put on his best poker face, and looks somewhere over Sam's left shoulder. "It's nothing. Okay? Forget it."   
  
The corner of Sam's mouth twitches upwards a little. "Pretty heavy for 'nothing,' if you ask me."  
  
"Which I didn't. Seriously, man, I..." Dean shuts up, looks down, sees the car keys lying on the foot of his bed, scoops them up, and heads for the door. "You know what, I think it'd be best for _both_ of us if I just got the hell out of here."   
  
Chances are, he's not going any farther than the parking spot the Impala's sitting in. Even if he does actually go somewhere, it probably won't be farther than the other side of the block. But his hand barely touches the knob before he hears Sam's voice behind him-- _right_ behind him, the little bastard is fast and he's Stealthy Like Ninja--and then one of Sam's huge hands appears over Dean's shoulder, braced against the door, keeping it shut, trapping Dean where he is.  
  
"So what the hell is _this?_ " Sam asks, damn near directly into Dean's ear. "'Don't do as I do, do as I say?'" _Now_ he's pissed. His voice is low and rough and there's just the barest hint of a snarl under it, and that is _so_ not helping. "Nuh-uh. That shit's not gonna fly with me, man."  
  
Dean knows that if he turns around, he's going to have his back against the door and Sam way too close to him in front, so he doesn't. "I'm not leaving," he snaps back as he tries to dodge to the left, where Sam's arm isn't.  
  
Except then it _is,_ because Sam brings the other hand into play, slapping it down against the door on the _other_ side of Dean's head. "Really? You've got the car keys in your hand and you're trying to get out the door. Kinda looks like leaving to me."  
  
"Jesus, Sam--" Dean tries to duck under Sam's left arm. Sam moves with him, keeping him trapped. "I'm not--I'm not _leaving_ leaving, okay? I'm just--I don't know, going to find us some food or drive around the block or go get a six-pack or something--"  
  
"The _hell_ you are," Sam snaps. He takes a deep breath and huffs it out in a hot sigh against the back of Dean's neck, and Dean tries not to shiver. "Look. You're hurt. You're exhausted. You're not driving _anywhere._ Okay? Now give me the keys." Sam grabs for the keys, and Dean yanks his hand back. "I'm serious, Dean, if you make one more move towards that doorknob I will knock your ass out and put you in bed myself."  
  
_Oh fuck, don't even go there,_ Dean almost says, and he cringes because that _had_ to be enough for Sam to pick up. Especially when Sam's _right there_ literally breathing down his neck. Sam isn't saying anything about it, though, and Dean starts to think maybe he missed it.  
  
And then he confirms it.  
  
"Don't go where?" he asks.   
  
Dean tries like hell to think of brick walls and inch-thick plate steel and lead. It all turns to styrofoam and fishnet and Swiss cheese. "Don't. Sam, _don't._ " He tries to think of wards and sigils to keep Sam out of his head, and despite the fact that there's plenty of them taped to the door right in front of his face he can't hold any of the damn things in his mind for longer than a second or two.   
  
"Something's eating you," Sam says, all cool and calm and soft again. "Eating you _bad._ It's weird. It's _right there,_ I _know_ it's right there, but I can't--it's like _you_ don't even want to think about it. Like you're trying to think _around_ it."  
  
"Sam--"   
  
"I can't... I can't pick _it_ up. But there's this ...stuff around it, kind of sticking all over it." Sam's quiet for a minute after that, and Dean's so damn freaked out and busy trying to keep Sam from getting at--at _that_ that he can't even summon up the presence of mind to try and escape again. "It's something about me," Sam finally says, and Dean honest to God whimpers. "And you think it's so bad I'd leave you right now over it."  
  
"Jesus, Sam, _please--_ you said you wouldn't--"  
  
"I'm not doing it on _purpose,_ Dean!" Sam's fingers clench against the door, like he wants to pound on it in frustration. Or, more likely, like he wants to pound on _Dean_ in frustration. Which, truth be told, Dean thinks he might actually prefer over this whole damn conversation. "I told you, it doesn't work like that! I can't and I _wouldn't._ But there's this--this _thing_ in your head, it's huge and it's _right there_ and it's driving you _batshit crazy,_ and if it's about _me_ then I think I've got a right to know what it is!"  
  
"Excuse me?" Dean spins around between Sam and the door, glaring pure death at Sam. A lesser man would back straight the fuck off at that look. "A _right!?_ You think you've got a _right_ to know?"  
  
Sam is not a lesser man.   
  
Not only does he not back off, he leans _closer,_ getting right up in Dean's face.   
  
"Yeah," he says, glaring right back.  
  
That's it.  
  
That? Is fucking _it._  
  
"Well, y'know what? _You don't!_ " Dean's raising his voice a little more than he intended to. "It's _my fucking head,_ Sam, and what goes on in it is _my fucking business!_ "   
  
Okay, he's raising his voice a _lot_ more than he intended to.  
  
Oh, hell, let's just call a spade a fuckin' spade here, that _someone's gonna snap_ thing Dean's been trying to avoid all night? It's happening right here and now and it's a really damn good thing there's nobody in the next room over to hear it.   
  
And the fact that Sam just stares him down and stands his ground and doesn't even flinch under it just pisses him off that much more. "What's it to you, anyway? Since when does _anygoddamnthing_ I think matter one damn bit to you?" Sam opens his mouth; Dean decides he doesn't want to hear whatever's going to come out of it. "Oh. Right. Since it's about _you._ 'Cause, y'know, it's _always about you._ What _you_ want to know and where _you_ want to go and what _you_ want to do with _your damn life,_ and to hell with everyone else, you _selfish son of a bitch!_ "  
  
"Excuse me!?" Sam asks. He doesn't yell back, he just does that goddamn infuriating _thing_ where he quirks an eyebrow and sneers a little and delivers the question in the same tone of voice he'd use if Dean had just said _hey, I think I'll go stick this fork in a light socket, that sounds like fun._ "That is _bullshit_ and you know it," he hisses through his teeth. "You think I would have come back if I didn't care about you? You think I'd be standing here putting up with your _crap_ right now? Man, don't _even_ stand there and call _me_ selfish, I'm not trying to guilt-trip _you_ into giving up on everything _you_ want--"  
  
_"Yes you fucking are!"_ Dean roars back; as the last word leaves his mouth he wants more than anything to reel it back in. Almost anything.  
  
Sam _finally_ flinches, just the tiniest bit, but other than that he keeps right on standing his ground. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?" he asks. "Anything to do with that thing you don't want to think about?"  
  
Oh _hell_ no. No way is Dean answering that. "You want to drop this, Sam." It's not a question. Dean's hands are clenched into shaking white-knuckled fists at his sides, so tight he'll find four little bloody crescent moons on each palm later because that's the only way he can keep from decking Sam right between the eyes. "Right now. Just step the _fuck_ back out of my face and let me out of here before I do something both of us is gonna regret."  
  
Sam doesn't. He doesn't step back, and he doesn't drop _jack shit._ And this time, Dean realizes, he's not going to until one of them starts throwing punches. Or until...  
  
Fuck it.  
  
Sam wants it that bad? He can _have_ it.   
  
"You really wanna know?"  
  
"Yeah," Sam snaps back, looking for all the world like he's fully prepared for this shit to escalate to physical violence if Dean says "no" to him. "Yeah. I do."  
  
"Fuck it. Why not?" Dean grits his teeth and shuts his eyes. "Hell, you might as well have a _really goddamn good_ excuse to leave this time, huh? Why the fuck not?"  
  
He takes a deep breath.  
  
Opens his eyes and stares straight into Sam's.  
  
" _You got it._ "  
  
And he hits Sam as hard as he can with everything he's been swallowing back and covering up and pushing away for--what, seven years? Eight? Whatever.   
  
Every fantasy, every wet dream, every time he's caught himself staring just a little too hard or a little too long. Every time he's ever jacked off to the sound of a running shower with Sam in it. Every time he's ever wanted to reach across the Impala's front seat and slide his hand up the inside of Sam's thigh. Every time he's ever wanted to crawl out of his bed and into Sam's in every shithole motel room they've ever shared. Every time he's ever looked at Sam's hands and wondered what those long fingers would feel like wrapped around his dick, cupping his balls, sliding inside him. Every time he's ever fucked--or been fucked by--some random stranger in some flyspeck town and imagined Sam's hands on him, Sam's mouth on him, Sam's cock inside him or his inside Sam. Every time he's ever fucked or been fucked by some random stranger and groaned Sam's name when he came. Every time thinking about any of this shit made him sick to his stomach from the sheer _wrong_ of it, every time he told himself _no,_ every time he tried and failed to stop thinking about it by scaring himself shitless and sleepless imagining what Dad would say and do to him for it, and every time he prayed to whatever gods might be listening that he doesn't talk in his sleep and that Sam never, ever, _ever_ finds out about any of this. Every last drop of _want_ and _need_ and _bad_ and _sick_ and _fucking wrong,_ seven-eight-whatever years' worth, all pouring out of him in the space of three or four heartbeats.  
  
Sam staggers backwards and his breath whuffs out of him, like he's just been punched in the stomach. This may not be so far from the truth. "Whoa," he pants, blinking like he's trying to clear some kind of sticky film off his eyes.  
  
Dean swallows and does not under any circumstances look anywhere _near_ Sam. "You catch all that?" he asks, trying to keep his voice neutral. It comes out a lot colder than he means it to. "Need me to repeat anything?"  
  
"N... no. I, uh. I got it." Sam clears his throat. "Wow. That's. Man. That was. Uh."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Holy shit," says Sam.   
  
If Dean wasn't so busy wanting to go burrow into the ground and _die_ he'd probably think Sam looking all shellshocked and gibbering random small words at him was the funniest thing he'd ever seen. He figures it'd probably be best if he bails before Sam shakes it off and goes totally batshit nuclear on him, though, so he shoves the car keys into his pocket, turns around, grabs the doorknob, and can't open the door because Sam's hand splats out on it _again_ and holds it shut tight.  
  
What the fuck?  
  
Dean cuts his eyes to the right and sees Sam's arm, steady as a rock. He turns his head and sees the rest of Sam--jaw set, eyes calm, staring at some invisible speck between his face and the door, and Dean starts to fear that he may have made a grievous tactical error in being so damn sure Sam would haul ass for this.  
  
He was wrong.   
  
Sam's not going to leave him.  
  
Sam's going to _kill_ him.  
  
"...Sam?"  
  
Sam nods, once. "Okay."  
  
Dean blinks a couple of times. "Okay wha--" he starts to say, and can't finish. Sam is fast, Sam is _Stealthy Like Ninja,_ and from straight out of absolutely nowhere Sam's mouth is _all over his._


	2. Chapter 2

Warnings: Porn. Wincest of the Sam/Dean variety. Bad words. Less angst than Part 1, but still angst and woe.   
  
Sam is kissing him.  
  
Sam. Is. _Kissing him._  
  
This was not part of Dean's game plan. Not that he really had one to begin with, but this? Totally out there.  
  
For the first three seconds, Dean doesn't move, doesn't blink, doesn't breathe, doesn't even think. He doesn't kiss back, simply because whatever part of his brain controls those muscles is sitting in his head going _seriously, what!?_ at this. He doesn't let go of the doorknob. He can't make himself do much of anything other than stare out over Sam's cheek like an idiot and wonder why he's still alive and not in lots of bloody pieces on the floor.  
  
Then Sam lets go of the door and curls that huge hand around the back of Dean's neck instead, and that snaps him out of it. Dean makes some little keening noise he'll deny the fuck out of later into Sam's mouth, lets go of the doorknob, and grabs for--well, he just _grabs,_ and what he ends up grabbing is the hem of Sam's T-shirt. That'll do.  
  
Good _God,_ Sam can kiss. Every bit as good as Dean ever imagined it. _Better._ All warm and wet and slow and hungry, like he's kissing with his whole body, like he wants this more than he's ever wanted anything, like this is really okay, like he doesn't see anything wrong with kissing another guy like this, like he doesn't see anything _sickandwrong_ about kissing his _brother_ like this oh Jesus Christ _no!_  
  
Dean's eyes have barely had time to close properly before they snap open again and he tears his hands out of Sam's T-shirt and _shoves,_ both of them wild-eyed and panting as Dean breaks them up. Sam's hand around the back of his neck keeps them closer (farther apart) than Dean is strictly comfortable with, and worse (better), it makes it easier for Sam to reel him back in. By the time Dean finds the shredded remains of his voice Sam's got him again, pulled close so all his _don't_ 's and _we can't_ 's and _god Sammy I'm so fucking sorry_ 's aren't much but shaky breath against Sam's lips. Sam breathes them in and exhales _shh_ 's and _it's okay_ 's against Dean's lips in turn.  
  
Dean tries to wriggle free again, tries to shove Sam off him again, but he's not trying very goddamn hard; even as his hands are trying to push Sam away they're knotting into his T-shirt again. He can't stop. Even telling himself _you know this is just going to make it worse if (when) he leaves you again, right?_ doesn't make his fingers stop crawling back into Sam's shirt. His body is simply too drunk on _want_ and _need_ and the heat and scent of Sam so close to him to care about what'll come later. The only way he's going to stop is if Sam... if Sam tells him to.   
  
"Stop me," he whispers, and Sam shakes his head.  
  
"No."  
  
"Sam. Please. Don't let me do this," Dean pleads, and even now, even as he's begging Sam to tell him to stop, he's nuzzling at Sam's lips like he can't live without them. "Tell me to stop. Make me stop."  
  
" _No._ "  
  
"Why the hell not!?" Dean tries to pull back again but it's an even weaker try than before. If Sam gives him even one good reason--  
  
"Like you said." Sam's fingers tighten around the back of Dean's neck, just a little. Holding on to him. Keeping him from squirming away. "I'm a selfish son of a bitch."  
  
"God, Sammy--"  
  
"And _I_ don't want you to stop."  
  
That's it. One good reason.  
  
He's done for.  
  
Sam gives him a tiny crooked smile, just one corner of his mouth tugging upwards. Dean starts to give one last token protest but before it can come out, Sam kisses him again.   
  
Slower and deeper, with that other arm winding around Dean's shoulders, and this time Dean lets him. Dean doesn't just let him, he opens his mouth wider, opens _himself_ wider, invites and begs with the hands fisted into Sam's shirt. Sam does this _thing_ with his tongue--this thing where it kind of flicks against Dean's and pulls back like it's saying _hey, come here_ and then does it again and _again,_ and that's an invitation Dean can't possibly decline. This time, he doesn't stop until he has to breathe. This time, he doesn't shove Sam away, he just drops his cheek to Sam's shoulder and breathes in dollar store soap and motel shampoo and _Sam._ Sam pets his back and murmurs something reassuring into the side of his head and hangs on.   
  
The craziest, most ridiculous damn thing _ever_ pops into Dean's head then, something about how Sam should have given Stanford the finger and gone to work for the CIA because he'd be like the best interrogator in the whole world, he made Dean spill this thing he'd sworn to carry to his own funeral urn just like _that_ without even laying a finger on him--hell, Sam could give that Iraqi guy on _Lost,_ whatsisname, a serious run for his money--  
  
"Sayid." Sam pulls back and laughs a little, surprised, a quiet little puff against the top of Dean's head. "Dude, you're comparing me to _Sayid?_ "   
  
Dean can't help but snort out a little surprised laugh himself. God, this is just fucking _absurd._ "Uh... kind of."   
  
"You, uh..." Sam's grinning. Dean knows that without even having to look up. "You want me to go look for some bamboo? Y'know. To stick under your fingernails."  
  
Dean looks up. Yeah, Sam's grinning. "I think you're supposed to tie me to a tree first."   
  
"Oh yeah. Right." Sam grins a little more and flinches a little--damn, one of them needs to see to _those_ claw marks really soon. "And then bring in a hot chick to kiss you when the bamboo doesn't work."  
  
"Dude, forget the hot chick. _You_ keep kissing me like that? I'd tell you _anything,_ " Dean says without really thinking, and then he shakes his head and drops it back onto Sam's shoulder. His fingers are starting to ache, and no wonder--how he hasn't torn Sam's shirt right off him from hanging on to it so damn tight is beyond him. So he lets go and wraps his arms around Sam's waist instead. Sam seems to approve of this, judging from the contented sigh against the side of his head and the big warm hand sliding up and down his back.   
  
"You okay?" Sam murmurs somewhere above.  
  
"Yeah. No. I don't know. This is _fucked up,_ Sam." Dean shakes his head again, hisses softly as he bumps the damn cut against Sam's shoulder. "You know that, right? That this is about as fucked up as it _gets?_ "  
  
Sam nods against the side of Dean's head. "Yeah. I know." And then he laughs again, just a little warm breath on Dean's neck. "You know what's even more fucked up?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"The fact that I don't really care how fucked up it is."  
  
"That's... yeah." Dean looks up again, and Sam's giving him a crooked, sheepish little smile. "That's so fucked up it's almost--"  
  
"--not fucked up?"  
  
When Dean--when Sam--when _they_ put it that way... okay, yeah, this definitely isn't going to be the end of it, and Dean isn't going to stop thinking _sickandwrong_ just like turning off a switch, and there's a pretty good chance that they're going to argue about it someday.   
  
But...  
  
"...yeah."   
  
And there was still that thing nagging at the back of Dean's mind, that thing about how much worse it's going to hurt if they keep this shit up and Sam leaves him again. They're probably going to argue about that too. A lot.   
  
But not right now.  
  
Sam's hand makes one more slow pass down Dean's back, stops just above the waistband of his jeans, and pats twice.   
  
"You still want that six-pack?" Sam offers, barely above a whisper, directly into Dean's ear. "I'm okay to drive if y--" And that's as far as Sam gets, because Dean...   
  
...well, Dean pretty much attacks him.  
  
And after the initial surprise wears off, Sam doesn't seem to have a problem with this.  
  
Dean knows he probably shouldn't be doing this right now, for reasons other than the ones they've already been over. For one thing, he's trying to be careful about where his hands go when they grab hold of Sam's head and drag him down for a kiss that's damn near violent, trying to keep them the hell away from those claw marks on Sam's cheek, and he knows they really need to at least get a bandage or something on there. For another, that quick neck-up rinse at the rest stop is the closest thing he's had to a shower since yesterday, since before all the climbing and running and fighting and rolling around on nasty dirty floors and, well, _ew._  
  
Sam doesn't seem to have much of a problem with any of that, either. Or maybe he does, but Dean is reasonably sure he wouldn't express that by grabbing Dean by his belt loops and nibbling on his lower lip.   
  
For a moment, Dean actually considers gently pushing away from Sam and suggesting they deal with these issues before things get out of hand. But then Sam _pulls,_ using Dean's damn belt loops as handles to drag him closer and _ohshit._ Half-hard? Not anymore.   
  
Dean tries to say stuff like "need a shower" and "fix your face?" but it's kind of hard to talk when Sam's chewing on his lip like that. He tries sending pictures instead. Sam lets go of his lip long enough to mumble "Later," and then instead of going back to chewing he catches Dean's tongue, draws it into his mouth, and sucks on it. This little trick conjures up images that make about half of the fantasies Dean threw at him look as tame as Saturday morning cartoons.   
  
Sam must have caught _those_ images too and apparently he approves of them, because he moans around Dean's tongue and shivers and yanks Dean even _closer._ There's not much closer he can go, but that doesn't stop Sam from trying and holy _shit,_ Sam's hard. So hard it almost hurts where he's pressed against Dean's hip, even through two pairs of underwear and one pair of jeans. And that means... oh _God._  
  
At the very least it means Sam just wants to fuck, period, and would prefer Dean to his hand. Which, for the record, Dean would be perfectly okay with right now.  
  
But then Dean ponders the best-case scenario--in which it means Sam specifically wants to fuck _him--_ and his knees almost buckle and his cock twitches hard against Sam's hip, hard enough for Sam to feel it through all their clothes.  
  
Sam growls at that twitch, honest to God _growls_ low and feral in his throat. Dean's never heard him make a noise like that before. Not in his sleep, not while fighting their Evil Thing _du jour,_ not while fighting _each other._ Dean's never heard Sam _growl._ Never. He wants to hear it again. His hands wander over Sam's back, searching for the hem of his T-shirt; when they find it they sneak up under it to splay out over warm bare skin, pull tight to drag Sam's hips up against his own.   
  
There's that growl again. Sam wedges a knee between Dean's thighs, and if that's not distracting enough one of those huge hands slides down and claws into a big handful of worn denim and Dean's ass. Every reason Dean might have ever had for not doing this goes right out the window for now. Especially the one that went _Sam will kill me for even thinking about this,_ because that one's been pretty much shot to Hell in the last five minutes.   
  
Sam being so damn willing--and so damn _in control--_ might not make this completely okay, but at least it seems a lot less _not_ okay, and Dean can live with that.  
  
Dean makes some weird groany noise against Sam's mouth and thrusts up against Sam's hip. He tries to be subtle about that. He really does, because even now, even as Sam is ducking down to lay a trail of soft wet sucking kisses down the side of Dean's neck and hitting all those exquisitely sensitive nerves that make his toes curl up like ten pink doodlebugs in his boots, he's still afraid that Sam will pull back if he gets carried away. But Sam's hip is warm and solid and _right there,_ and his dick has a lot of ideas and not a damn one of them is anywhere near the neighborhood of "subtle."   
  
Sam doesn't seem to mind the lack of subtlety. He doesn't stop, and he sure as hell doesn't pull back--he _pushes,_ pinning Dean against the door with one well-placed hip. And lest Dean forget about that thigh wedged in between his, Sam presses _that_ up and forward to rub him _just_ right.   
  
To hell with subtlety. Dean lets his head drop back against the door, bares his throat to Sam, and before his brain turns to goo and his mind turns to white noise, he thinks one word at Sam as hard as he can.  
  
_Please._  
  
Sam shudders against Dean (particularly that thigh pressed up against his dick) and whimpers "oh god" against the side of Dean's throat. Any worries Dean might have had about lack of subtlety go out the window to hang out with the rest of the Issues he's already tossed out onto the street for the night. Sam bucks forward hard, shoving Dean back against the door and grinding hard against his hip, jerking that thigh just a little more up-and-forward to give Dean something solid to grind against as well.   
  
There was this one time where Dean had almost been drunk enough to do something like this. Just come back to the motel, grab Sam by the collar, slam him up against the nearest wall, grind up against him all slow and hard and graceful, tease his ears with hot breath and whispered praise and encouragement, make him beg for more, maybe make him come in his pants a couple or three times. He hadn't done it that night or on any night since, but it had always remained one of his favorite pieces of mental porn and he had set it high in his artillery for when he needed an image that would make him come in a hurry.  
  
There's nothing slow or graceful about this. But the "hard" part they've got covered, and so what if Dean's the one getting dry-humped through a wall and Sam's the one whispering _yeah, god yeah, 's okay, c'mon, harder, don't stop_ in his ear instead of the other way around?   
  
_Don't stop,_ Sam said, and if Dean had anything left upstairs he'd laugh. He couldn't stop if he wanted to now. He's afraid he couldn't even stop if Sam wanted him to. Not that there's any real danger of that; Sam was pretty clear on that issue. The point is, no fucking way can he stop now, not with him just _right_ there on the edge. It's frantic and rough and devastating, heat and pressure and friction in all the right places but damn it, it's not enough, not enough, just not quite fucking _enough--_  
  
Dean must have been thinking that in so many words (or else groaning it against Sam's shoulder), because Sam pulls back with a hissed curse and "okay" falling from his lips. Which leaves Dean squirming and whimpering for more until he feels a yank somewhere below his navel and realizes what Sam's doing.   
  
Sam is clawing at the fly of his jeans, fumbling with the button and the zipper. When he succeeds in wrestling them open he reassigns one hand to his own boxers, shoving them down past his hips and deeming that close enough for government work. Then he yanks at Dean's jeans a couple more times, rasps "oh, fuck it" against the hollow of Dean's throat, and just shoves his hand down the undone fly and wriggles those long fingers under the waistband of Dean's underwear.  
  
The first touch of skin to skin, the first brush of Sam's fingertips down the underside of Dean's cock, is all it takes. Dean comes as soon as Sam's hand closes around him, hips slamming forward completely out of his control, dick jerking and pulsing and soaking Sam's hand and his own clothes, and legs shuddering and wobbling in a such a way that Dean is eternally grateful for the thigh shoved up between his because he's pretty sure that's the only thing keeping him upright. He throws his head forward and bites down hard on Sam's shoulder to muffle the snarling roaring noise welling up in his throat, and that still isn't enough to shut him up completely. Not even close. It seems to go on forever and it's not letting up, and somewhere in the back of Dean's mind he starts to seriously wonder if this could actually physically _kill_ him, if his heart could explode, if his central nervous system could simply overload and shut down, if he could literally come his brains out because it sure as hell feels like that's what he's doing.   
  
He could think of worse ways to die.  
  
He doesn't die, though. He thinks he might have blacked out for a second, but Sam doesn't seem to have noticed anything alarming. Then again, Sam doesn't seem to be in much of a condition to notice anything, because the first thing that registers when Dean comes back to Earth is movement against his hip, some soft wet repetitive little sound coming from the same general area, quick hot breath against the side of his neck, and Sam's ragged voice gasping _God_ and _yeah_ and _Dean_ in his ear.  
  
Dean blinks his eyes open, looks down, and sees Sam doing the very thing Dean once imagined him doing over the course of a too-long shower. The sight is every bit as distracting in real life as it was in Dean's mind. Sam's hands are beautiful to begin with, huge and long-fingered and softer than they have any damn right to be considering what they go through in a day's work. But seeing one of them wrapped around Sam's dick, seeing the way Sam's thumb flicks over the very tip every few strokes... oh holy fuck, Sam's hands were just _made_ for sex, weren't they? Dean's softening cock twitches faintly in Sam's other hand, and it occurs to him that it's kind of inconsiderate of him to just stand here and watch this when he could be helping.  
  
"Sam," Dean croaks, and he pours every ounce of willpower he has left into making his arm move. "Jesus, Sammy--let me--" He pushes Sam's hand away from his dick; before Sam can protest he takes over, jerking him hard and fast. It barely takes three strokes before Sam crushes his mouth to the side of Dean's throat and makes a muffled noise that, had he left it unchecked and were the next room over occupied, would surely earn them some wall-pounding and complaints.  
  
Sam's never done a half-ass job of anything in his whole life. Apparently, that extends to his sex life as well. Dean watches with something like awe, because Sam comes like he'll die if he doesn't. Of course he does; he's been living like a goddamn _monk_ since November, since Jess. Dean suspects he hasn't even jerked off since then--and how _anyone_ could go that long without even so much as his hand is beyond Dean; he starts getting pissy and twitchy if he's gone one lousy week without getting off. Whatever the case, Dean's never seen anyone come like this. He's never _made_ anyone come like this, and he's had some serious screamers in his time.   
  
Every muscle in Sam's body tenses to rock-solidity when his cock jumps and empties into Dean's hand, then he goes all water-loose and slumps forward against Dean to catch a couple of quick hitching breaths in the valleys between spasms. He gasps out choked little _ah!_ noises that rise in pitch and volume at the onset of each new wave and whimpers when it fades and he can breathe again.  
  
Later, Dean will think about this and realize that he has a lovely new addition to his mental porn stash. He might not need it as often now, but just thinking about what Sam looks and sounds like when he comes is all it'll take to give Dean an instant hard-on for a month. Maybe two.  
  
Eventually the valleys spread out longer and lazier, and the peaks come lower and farther apart until Sam lets out one last rush of breath in a low groan and flops bonelessly forward against Dean's shoulder. One of his hands is braced against the door to keep him in some semblance of an upright state. The other is still shoved down the front of Dean's pants, fingers still twitching feebly every once in a while. He makes some tired little murbling noise that kind of sounds like "homygod" against Dean's neck and then hisses softly when he turns his head a little too far to the wrong side and scrapes his clawed-up cheek against Dean's scratchy jaw.   
  
"Uh huh," Dean concurs. Without really thinking about it, he brings his hand to his mouth and licks it clean.   
  
Sam picks up his head a bit, notices what Dean is doing, sputters a little, and then plops back down on Dean's shoulder again. "Homyfuckin _god,_ " he gasps, adding a little nuzzle this time.  
  
The air between them is hot, humid, thick with sweat and sex and Dean drinks it in, savors it like the taste of Sam's come on his fingers. The rush of rage and adrenaline from just a few minutes ago has ebbed away to almost nothing, leaving Dean physically sore and exhausted but otherwise feeling better than he has in months.  
  
And now he really, _really_ needs that shower. Because now not only is he sweaty and grubby, he's also _sticky_ and that's just not going to work.  
  
Sam splatted out on his shoulder (and Sam's hand _still_ tucked down the front of his jeans--seriously, has he just forgotten where he put it?) stands in the way of this. As much as Dean would like him to stay, Sam's gonna have to move. Dean reaches up and taps him on the bicep, grunting something like "lemme up, 'm gross" and jerking a thumb toward the bathroom.  
  
Sam picks his head up, mumbles "huh?" in reply, and blinks a few times. "...oh," he finally says. "'Kay." He pushes off with the hand splayed out on the door, wobbles upright, and pads to the nearest bed where he plunks down and plucks dazedly at the front of his beloved--and sticky--dog T-shirt. And then he realizes he's plucking at his beloved and sticky dog T-shirt with the hand Dean just came all over. With a little pained resigned noise, Sam just gives up and wipes that hand off on his poor T-shirt. "Man," he finally says, and there might actually be a little bit of a laugh behind it, "how many times 'm I gonna have to change clothes tonight..."  
  
Dean can't help but grin a little as he weaves off to the bathroom and shuts himself in.  
  
  
 


	3. Chapter 3

Warnings: Bad words, Wincest, HOLY CRAP PR0N, mush.  
  
\--  
  
  
It occurs to Dean as he's turning on the hot water that he might need to rethink this whole "shower" thing.   
  
The main problem with a shower is that one has to stand up. Dean isn't sure he can manage that long enough to actually get himself clean. He barely manages it long enough to shuck off his boots, socks, jeans, underwear, and T-shirt and leave them in undignified heaps on the bathroom floor, even with his jeans already unzipped. There's also the issue of overspray, which isn't a very good thing when one has a few fresh bandages covering up a lot of fresh wounds and would like to keep them dry. He kind of sees where Sam's coming from on that one; he just _had_ the damn things put on and he doesn't want to have to change them again already.  
  
So there's a small change in plans; instead of cranking on the shower, Dean flips the little chrome lever that plugs the drain and tries not to think too much about when, if ever, this tub was last scrubbed out. When the water reaches an acceptable level, he shuts it off and sinks into the tub, squishing around until everything between mid-calf and chin is submerged in hot water. He squishes around a little more from time to time, either to lean his head back and wash his hair before the water gets too gross or to soak his aching feet.  
  
And really, this is a lot better anyway, because a prolonged lazy soak in a nice warm tub turns out to be exactly what he needed to chase that residual ache out of his limbs and his back for now. And what little tension in his neck and his shoulders survived the cataclysmic orgasm Sam gave him is no match for a tub full of hot water.  
  
Also, there's that thing where he doesn't have to stand up.  
  
But then there's that other thing, where every tiny movement he makes under the water's surface stirs up little warm currents, most of which flow right over his dick. Which, when combined with pleasant thoughts about his back against a door and Sam's tongue in his mouth and Sam's hand down his pants and the fact that this wasn't just another one of his fantasies and all of this shit _actually happened_ just a few minutes ago, leaves Dean battling a low-grade hard-on he doesn't particularly want. For the second time that night.  
  
He doesn't hear anything outside the bathroom door. Not even the TV. Sam must have changed clothes and then passed right out, and Dean doesn't blame him at all. And as tempting as the thought is, it would be pretty shitty of him to go out there and wake Sam up just because he's still horny.  
  
Maybe he should just jerk off in the tub. Except there's this _other_ thing where he can't quite work up the energy to do so. Okay, fine, he'll get out of the tub, take a towel with him, crawl into the _other_ bed, wait until some of his bath-robbed strength comes back, and _then_ jerk off. Quietly, of course. Sounds like a plan.   
  
Dean opens his eyes and blinks down at the water he's mostly submerged in. It's cooler than he'd really like it to be now, and it's also taken on the distinct cloudy grayish murk of mingled soap, dirt, and sweat. And come, as his brain ever-so-helpfully reminds him. Crap, that's just making him even harder.   
  
Definitely time to get out.  
  
Dean hauls himself up out of the murky water and flips the drain lever again. The water takes its sweet time draining, and Dean takes an equally sweet measure of time drying himself off and securing a second towel around his waist. Rough terrycloth dragging over his dick is not helping the hard-on situation at all. He ponders the clothes strewn all over creation, knows he should at least pick them up and bring them into the main room, and says "fuck it." Instead, he decides to simply kick them in the general direction of a bed. Much easier.  
  
He opens the door, kicks his pile of clothes toward the bed, takes one step out, and... stops.  
  
And stares.  
  
The lights are still on. And Sam is definitely not asleep.  
  
There's fresh white gauze taped over the claw marks on his cheek. He must have finally dealt with that while Dean was in there marinating in the tub. He's giving Dean this kind of sheepish look and he's all sprawled out on the bed closest to the door, the one he'd plopped down on before Dean dragged himself off to the bathroom.   
  
Sam has also taken off his come-splattered clothes, left them in a sad little pile on the floor... and not bothered to put on clean ones.   
  
No, not even boxers.  
  
And on top of all that, Sam is...   
  
Okay, look. Sam naked? Seen it. All the time. It's kind of unavoidable, close quarters and single-tiny-bathroom motel rooms and all that shit.   
  
Sam naked and hard? Seen it. Once or twice, by accident. That was something Dean always preferred to avoid, partly because it made him think about things he had no business thinking about, partly because seeing Sam in that state was usually followed by Sam turning bright red and yelling and bitching about his privacy and chucking something at Dean's head.  
  
Sam naked, hard, sprawled out on his back, running a lazy hand up and down his cock, and looking at Dean like he wants some help with that, and this happening somewhere other than the confines of Dean's imagination? _Does not compute._  
  
"Jesus _Christ,_ " Dean chokes, grabbing the bathroom doorframe for support. With the hand that was holding his towel up.   
  
"Uh... hey." Sam looks like he might be blushing a little.  
  
"Guh," Dean replies. He's pretty sure it's physically impossible for him to blush because all of his blood appears to be in his dick at the moment. There damn sure isn't any in his upstairs brain; if there was, he wouldn't be standing here going "guh" at what he's seeing, he'd be _doing something about it._  
  
Eventually, it registers that Sam isn't looking him in the eye anymore. He's looking... down. Where there was once a towel.   
  
Where there is a towel no more.  
  
"I was kinda hoping you weren't sleepy yet," Sam says, with a little sheepish laugh. "Are you?"  
  
Dean swallows hard. "Uh. I, uh. I _was._ " He reaches up and scratches the back of his head. Doesn't seem like there's much point in picking his towel up now. "Guess you're not either."   
  
Sam shakes his head and gives him a quirky half-smile. A little less sheep, a little more wolf. "C'mere."  
  
With all that smooth skin and sleek muscle he's been dying to touch and taste for years right here in front of him and Sam giving him the go-ahead to do it, there is no way in Hell Dean can turn that invitation down.   
  
First things first, though. Just in case.  
  
Later, Dean will have no idea how he mustered up the coordination and balance to do this, but he hooks his toes into the waistband of his discarded jeans, lifts them up into grabbing range, and fishes his wallet out of the back pocket.   
  
Sam snickers and says something rude, something to do with monkey feet. Dean snickers back, thumbs something out of one of the pockets of his wallet, drops the wallet back into the sorry heap of his jeans, and flips Sam off. Sam must be in a much better mood now, because all that does is make him snicker even more. "That what I think it is?" he asks, nodding in the direction of Dean's other hand and the thing he just retrieved from his wallet.  
  
Dean sits down on the edge of the bed and lets Sam see the item in question for a second before he leans down and stashes it under the pillow. "Just in case," he says, aloud this time, and while he's down here he can't help dropping a little sneak-attack kiss on Sam's shoulder.   
  
"Mm." Not sneaky enough, though. "Do that again?"  
  
When Sam asks him like that, with that little smile Dean can _hear_ in his voice, how could he do anything but oblige? Dean touches his lips to Sam's shoulder again, smiles as he feels the shiver and the prickle of goosebumps under them, shivers a little himself at the noises Sam makes when he nuzzles his way along Sam's collarbone to the hollow of his throat, makes a few noises of his own when Sam lets his hands wander.   
  
So it's only fair for Dean to shift all his weight onto one elbow and free up a hand to do likewise. His range of motion is a little limited in this position--about three quarters of his ass and one knee on the bed, the other leg kicked out behind him and foot planted on the floor to keep the parts of him on the bed from falling off it, the rest of him kind of sprawled out across Sam's chest at a weird angle. Still, it's enough for him to slide his palm down Sam's chest, over his stomach, down to his hip--  
  
Sam makes a particularly nice noise at that. "Come _here,_ " he repeats, tugging on Dean's hip to emphasize that.  
  
"I _am_ here," Dean answers, with a warm laugh against Sam's neck. He doesn't move, aside from his lips and tongue teasing Sam's neck and his palm stroking along Sam's hip. He doesn't really want to move yet. It's nice, just sprawling out here on top of Sam, touching and being touched, all slow and lazy like it wasn't last time.   
  
"No, I mean--" Sam shivers again when Dean's fingertips trace over his hipbone, and that's even nicer. " _Nngh._ " He gets an arm around Dean's waist, gives a mighty grunt and heave, and pulls Dean completely onto the bed, completely on top of _him._  
  
That... that's _very_ nice. And suddenly, "slow and lazy" just isn't quite cutting it anymore.  
  
It's almost too much, all that hot bare skin pressed right up against his dick all at once, and Dean almost comes right then and there. Having Sam's hands all over him like this--wandering over his back, his shoulders, his hips, his ass--isn't helping. To make matters worse--or better, depending on how one looks at it--Sam is rocking his hips upwards, long slow grinding thrusts against Dean's hip, and that is _totally_ not helping. Oh, it's definitely helping _Sam,_ but it's making Dean's cock jealous as all get-out.   
  
He tries to distract it, and licking his way down Sam's chest helps for a few minutes. But then his tongue rolls over a nipple and Sam makes this strangled little _aah_ noise. And if that isn't devastating enough, he arches up and hooks his feet behind Dean's calves and rolls his whole body up against Dean's from his chest to his knees. It doesn't escape Dean's notice that there's a slick stripe trailing up along his hip where the head of Sam's dick is sliding against it. He thinks about the way it felt in his hand just a few minutes ago, thick and hard and slick at the tip and... okay, that's not helping either. He untangles his legs from Sam's and rolls up onto one hip, just enough to get a hand between them.  
  
The noises Sam's making aren't helping at _all._  
  
He whines in the back of his throat when Dean's fingertips skate down his stomach. When they brush up along the underside of Sam's dick he jerks and hisses like they're burning him, except he jerks up towards Dean's fingers instead of down and away, and the hiss sounds less like an _ow_ hiss and more like an _oh fuck do that again_ hiss. When Dean obliges him and does it again, the hiss is replaced by a shaky, breathy groan.   
  
Dean goes looking for that growl again after that. He figures if Sam's going to lay there and make noise, he might as well make the really _good_ noise, y'know? He finds it at the very tip of Sam's cock, coaxed out of hiding by the pad of Dean's thumb tracing wet little circles around the slit.   
  
Without really thinking about it, Dean brings that thumb to his lips and sucks it into his mouth, his eyes slipping shut as he tastes salt and Sam on it. He hears Sam gasp " _Jesus,_ " opens his eyes, and sees Sam staring flushed and wide-eyed at the thumb in Dean's mouth.   
  
Dean's still about as psychic as a golf ball and he can't read Sam's mind any better than he could before all this started, but it doesn't take telepathy for him to know Sam's getting some nice mental images right now. He considers it payback for the tongue-sucking thing. Or he would, if he could think about anything other than fucking Sam senseless. Or Sam fucking _him_ senseless. Or, him, Sam, and fucking, in general. Or--  
  
Sam lets go of Dean long enough to pound his fist into the mattress. "God _dammit,_ Dean, stop thinking about it and _do it_ already--"  
  
\--or the fact that Sam can hear him thinking about all of that.   
  
He's going to get used to this shit someday, Dean thinks. Someday he's going to learn to think quietly. Someday he's going to learn how to do that psychic shield thing--which would be a useful skill to have anyway because if _Sam_ can hear his headbones grinding, who knows what the fuck else could? Someday this'll stop being freaky and start being just one more of a million little Sam Things he doesn't think twice about. Like Sam drinking foofy girl coffee or getting pissy if they go more than a week without doing laundry or making "eww" faces when Dean dips his French fries in ranch dressing.  
  
For right now, he just grins at the realization that he can now drive Sam totally batshit fucking loco without ever laying a finger on him and without saying a single word.  
  
One of Sam's hands suddenly goes missing. One minute, it's clawing at Dean's ass, and the next... gone. Dean looks up just in time to see that hand diving under the pillow. It takes him a second or two to realize that Sam isn't going for the knife under there, and by the time he remembers what else was stashed under that pillow Sam's pressing the little plastic packet into his hand and whispering "come on--Dean, do it, just--come _on,_ " into the top of Dean's head.  
  
Dean swallows hard and shivers at the thought of what Sam's begging him for. Plastic crinkles in his fingers as they clench around the condom. He almost says "okay" and goes for it.  
  
Almost.  
  
He shakes his head, and Sam honest to God _whimpers._  
  
"Oh fuck, don't _even_ stop now," Sam sputters up at him. "Dean, _please--_ "  
  
"No," Dean says. For one thing, he's pretty sure Sam's never done this. And doing it without hurting him would take far more patience and control than Dean thinks he can muster up right now.   
  
For another...  
  
Before Sam can protest or complain or even beg him again, Dean presses the condom back into Sam's hand.   
  
_I want you to._  
  
Sam just kind of... stops breathing for a second. It's clear that whatever he might have been expecting, this sure as hell wasn't it. "Jesus," he gasps again, shivering under Dean, squeezing Dean's hip tight. "You--you sure?"  
  
Dean nods and grinds down on Sam's hip and is sure with every molecule in his body. He rolls off Sam and onto the empty half of the bed, pulling Sam over on top of him as he goes. "Like this," he breathes, and later he won't be entirely sure whether he actually said this or what follows it out loud or not. "Just like this. Want to watch you. Touch you. Taste you." Out loud or not, Sam hears it, shivers again, groans out Dean's name, and nuzzles at Dean's shoulder, plastic crinkling again as his fingers twitch closed tight. Dean starts to wonder if maybe he shouldn't deal with the damn rubber himself, since Sam seems a little too far gone to summon up that much coordination. "Want you in me. Want you to--" Dean is pretty sure he shuts up or is at least slightly muffled when he pries the condom out of Sam's hand and tears it open with his teeth. His out-loud voice, then. "Want--fuck, Sammy--" Definitely his out-loud voice, because it breaks when he reaches down to deal with the condom and Sam mewls and grabs at the sheets and bucks into his hand. " _Fuck,_ " Dean gasps again, this time because he's sure he can feel Sam's pulse throbbing in his hand as he strokes slick latex down Sam's cock. "Yeah. God _yeah_ I'm sure."  
  
Sam swallows hard and nods. He opens his mouth, probably to say "okay" or something, but nothing comes out except this airy little yelp when Dean squeezes him on the pretense of getting all the air out of the damn condom.  
  
There's slick stuff on the condom but not an abundance of it, definitely not enough for someone who's never done this. Dean thinks it should be enough for him if they start slow, at least.   
  
Somewhere in the back of his mind, back where Sam can't see, he's kind of ashamed of that.   
  
Dean's fingers tighten around the base of Sam's cock once more, drawing forth another little yelp from Sam and a shiver from himself. He feels two fingertips pressed gently to his lips and he wonders for a second if Sam is trying to tell him to stay quiet.   
  
Sam must have caught that thought, or else the look on Dean's face betrayed him, because he laughs softly and presses a little more until his fingertips are _in_ Dean's mouth and... oh. _Oh._ Now he gets it. He sucks Sam's fingers deep into his mouth and swirls his tongue around to slick them up as best he can. Sam shivers a little--this must be putting some more nice images in his head, and Dean makes a mental note to ask Sam to share later--and pulls his fingers back halfway, only to thrust them back in and repeat that whole process.  
  
Very nice images indeed. Between that and the faint taste of his own come still clinging to Sam's fingers, Dean starts to fear that he might not make it much longer. He taps Sam on the hip, thinking _now_ at him as hard as he can.  
  
"Is this gonna be enough?" Sam asks, staring down at Dean with an expression that's about half concern and about half sheer naked _want;_ he's practically fucking Dean's mouth with his fingers, and it's obviously taking a toll on him. "I don't want to hurt you."  
  
This time, Dean believes him.   
  
But truth be told, he _wants_ it to hurt. He wants to still feel it tomorrow, maybe the next day too. He wants it to feel like something he's never done before, something he's never done with anyone but Sam. If he'd ever seriously thought that someday, somewhere, he might really look up at Sam and say _fuck me_ and that Sam might actually do it, if he'd ever thought for even one second that this might actually really truly honest to God happen someday, he would have waited.  
  
He almost tells Sam to skip the fingers and then thinks about that one again. Sam is bigger--and _harder--_ than he's used to. Dean does kind of want this to hurt, but he also kind of wants to be able to walk tomorrow.  
  
So he just drags the flat of his tongue along Sam's fingers and nods.   
  
"Okay," Sam replies, pushing his fingers into Dean's mouth one more time and pulling them free with a soft wet "pop."   
  
It doesn't _quite_ hurt when Sam pushes those wet fingers into him, but it's close. Yes, fingers, plural, both at once right off the bat, and that right there is enough to confirm Dean's suspicion that Sam has never done this. Well, he does seem to know how it's supposed to work in theory, but as far as actually _doing it_ goes it's safe to say he's got no real-world experience.   
  
Dean makes an offhanded mental note to tell Sam later that it's generally a good idea to start off with one. Especially if you're working with nothing but spit. Because if Dean hadn't already had some experience here... uh, _ow?_   
  
But it doesn't hurt. It feels _weird,_ like it always does at first. Maybe a little weirder than usual on account of Sam's fingers being so damn long, and, well, both at once. No matter how ready Dean thinks he is, no matter how bad he wants it, there's always that initial _hey wait that doesn't go there_ reflex that makes him hiss and tense up until he can convince his body to relax.   
  
It's a good thing Dean doesn't have to rely on his out-loud voice to coach Sam through this, because that's not producing much other than the occasional strangled little gasp or click or grunt when Sam's fingers flex and push and pull inside him. It's kind of nice to be able to lay there and think things like _slow_ and _easy_ and _more_ and have Sam pick up on them.  
  
But then Sam's fingers curve just right, hit him just right completely by accident. Sam flinches like Dean's hit him in the head with a baseball bat as Dean yelps and arches up and thinks Sam's name, several random deities' names, the words _there_ and _again_ and _yeah,_ and every curse word Dean knows in every language he knows them in, all at once, all wrapped in lightning and static, loud as an explosion in his head.  
  
" _God,_ Dean," Sam stutters up above him, and then he does it again. The second time isn't nearly as intense but it's still _good,_ good enough to leave Dean clutching at Sam's shoulders, wrapping his legs around Sam's hips, squirming and rubbing his cheek against the pillow like a cat in heat and running off at the brain and the mouth with _yes yes yes god fuck yes there god Sammy now please now fuck me now now nownownow_ until Sam shudders and whines and replaces his fingers with the head of his cock.  
  
_Now_ it hurts, and Dean hisses through his teeth and tenses up all over again, willing his muscles to relax and silently telling Sam to please for God's sake go slow.   
  
Sam _is_ bigger than he's used to. And harder than he's used to, and drier than he's used to. There's no question that Dean's going to feel this tomorrow; right now he can feel every bump, every ridge, every tiny catch-slip of not-quite-slick-enough latex between them as Sam eases into him, opens him up, stretches him wide. It hurts, but it's a good hurt. A clean hurt, like peroxide on a fresh cut and sage smoke in the back of his throat, the kind that burns away bad stuff and will leave him feeling better all over if he just hangs on and rides it out.   
  
His nails bite into Sam's shoulders, and Sam hisses out a curse and twitches forward before he can catch himself.   
  
"Sorry," Sam gasps. Dean just nods and thinks _'s okay_ at him. He concentrates on breathing slow and even (not very easy), concentrates on the sound of Sam's slow but shaky breath (much easier), concentrates on the feel of Sam's warm skin under his hands (very easy).  
  
He's not exactly sure when it happens or who starts it, but after a while Dean realizes that it doesn't hurt nearly so much and that they're moving, rocking against each other without much of a rhythm, just a lazy, careful, kind of awkward back-and-forth while Sam gets his bearings. Definitely his first time on the pitcher's mound. Not that there's anything wrong with that--in fact, Dean's glad to see it.  
  
Sam fucks like he kisses, slow and deep and so sweet it hurts, and all Dean can do is cling to him with all his strength. His legs tighten and shift around Sam's waist as he rocks his hips upward, looking for just the right angle, thrusting against Sam's belly and trying to get more of Sam inside him... and now that he thinks about it, kissing does sound really nice right about now. Except that's kind of hard to do with Sam so far above him, propped up on his hands like that. Dean reaches for his shoulders, tugs downward. "C'mere," he whispers, and Sam laughs.  
  
"I _am_ here." But he shifts his weight onto one hand anyway, rearranges himself and lowers himself down onto his elbows, puts himself in perfect kissing range.  
  
Dean can't help but grin. "Smartass."  
  
Sam just laughs a little more and kisses him, soft and wet just like Dean wants him to, while he shifts around some more until his forearms are under Dean's back, his hands are under Dean's shoulders, until Sam is actually _cradling_ him like that, and that's just so intimate and so sweet and so _Sam_ that it makes Dean's heart ache.  
  
Until Sam moves again and escalates all of this from "sweet" to "hot." Because when Sam moves again, there's a rhythm to it this time. It's still slow and kind of careful, but at the same time there's a hint of a tease there, like Sam's trying to draw this out as long as he can (entirely possible), to drive Dean as batshit crazy as he can (very possible and extremely likely).  
  
And then... and then Sam opens his mouth. And takes this straight from "hot" to "holy motherfucking _shit_ " in 0.2 seconds. Dean never would have figured Sam for a talker. Hell, he thought he'd never hear Sam say "dick" without "you're such a" or "stop thinking with your" in front of it.   
  
But here Sam is, hissing and whispering and moaning the hottest audible porn Dean's ever heard into his ear, this steady stream of _God_ and _Dean_ and _tight_ and _hot_ and _good_ and _would have fucked you years ago if you'd just asked, you dumbass--_  
  
That last one catches Dean a little off guard. "Wh--" he stammers, and that's as far as that gets because Sam adjusts his angle again and hits him _just_ right, and even his brain can't add the "--at?" because it's too busy yammering _thererightthereohgodyes_ to care about finishing his mouth's sentences.  
  
"You think I've never jacked off in the shower and thought about your hand on my dick?" Sam nips at Dean's earlobe. "You think I've never sat there in the bars and watched you flirt with everything that had tits on it--" He shifts a little on his elbows, the better to keep that angle, _slams_ forward to punctuate this, and Dean muffles a yelp against his shoulder "--and wanted to drag you into the men's room or something and suck you till you couldn't imagine being in anyone's mouth but _mine?_ You think you're the only one that's put way too damn much thought into _fucking his brother_ over the hood of the car, or letting his brother fuck _him_ over the hood of the--oh _God,_ Dean--" That seems to have been brought on by Dean's cock twitching hard against Sam's stomach and Dean bearing down even harder around Sam's. "You--you think you've got a monopoly on _bad thoughts?_ " He laughs then, it's thick and strained but he actually _laughs_ and pounds into Dean again before he can say anything to that. "All this time you--oh _god--_ you were afraid I'd be pissed off at you, when the only thing I'm pissed off about is that I could have--could have had this--any time I wanted if I'd just fucking _asked you for it--_ "  
  
And that's the truth. That's God's honest truth. If Sam had asked, if he'd ever asked, Dean would have done this for him. He might have balked a little, might have given him the _you know this is fucked up, right?_ disclaimer, but if Sam had asked, he would have.  
  
_Because it's always about you._   
  
The words are the same as before, the same as the ones spoken in anger not an hour ago. But now they've had the venom and vitriol stripped away and there's nothing left of them. Nothing left of them but what they really mean. _It's all about you. It always has been. It always will be. Whatever you want to do, wherever you want to go, anything, anything you want, I'll do anything for you--_  
  
Whether Sam actually hears that or not is beside the point. "Come for me," he pants against Dean's lips, right on cue, punctuating that demand with a sharp little nip. "C'mon, Dean, I know you want to come, know you _need_ to, let me see you, let me _feel_ you, c'mon--"  
  
And that, right there, is more than Dean can stand. There's just enough room between them for him to let go of one of Sam's shoulders and wriggle a hand between them, just enough room for him to jerk himself off. It's not pretty, it's not graceful, it's not anygoddamnthing but what his dick wants, and Sam _still_ shudders and gasps when he adjusts his angle again so he can look down and see what Dean's doing.  
  
"Yeah," Sam gasps, slamming down and forward and actually shoving Dean back an inch or two as he fucks him senseless. "God yeah, that's it, come for me, right now--"  
  
That's an order Dean can't possibly disobey. His hand whips down the length of his cock twice more, Sam thrusts into him once more, and then every muscle he owns locks solid and he comes, wet heat splattering all over Sam's stomach and dripping back down onto his own. It's good and solid and tight, slamming into the base of his spine like a punch, but it's not as brain-fryingly intense as the first. Which is fine, and kind of how the second orgasm of the night is supposed to feel, and it's fine. Better than fine.  
  
But then Sam hits that spot again, hits it just right and just when Dean's not really expecting it, and this time he thinks he really _is_ going to come himself to death. He knows he's biting down on Sam's shoulder hard enough to leave marks. He thinks he can taste blood, though whose it is he doesn't exactly know. He's barely aware of the noises Sam makes when another wave hits and Dean squeezes him tight, thick strangled little yelping noises, and by the time Sam comes four seconds later it's all Dean can do to hang on to him, to keep him from jerking them both right off the bed or through the wall or something. God, he can _feel_ Sam coming inside him--well, not exactly, on account of the condom, but he can feel Sam's dick jerking and pumping, stretching him just that much wider with every fresh shudder that passes through Sam, and not only is Dean definitely going to feel this in the morning, he's going to take that image to bed with him for _weeks._  
  
By the time Dean remembers who and where he is and why it's so goddamn hot in this room, Sam is draped over him like a blanket. A sweaty, sticky, heavy, gasping blanket that needs oxygen and a drink of water and a damp washcloth. Draped over him, still inside him, and completely fucked out.  
  
Dean would be perfectly fine with sleeping like this. Hell, he's halfway there now. But then Sam grunts and stirs and makes some kind of little "ug" noise and starts trying to get himself upright. Dean manages to work up enough coordination to give him a little helpful push, hisses when Sam slips free of him, barely hears the toilet noises or the sink noises, barely notices when the room goes dark.  
  
He _does_ notice the sudden damp _splot_ noise and the equally sudden wet warmth across his belly.  
  
"You awake enough to handle that on your own?" Sam asks.  
  
"Uh." Dean pokes at the washcloth, can't quite figure out how to make it work. Sam laughs a little, sits down on the edge of the bed, and takes care of that for him. And that wakes Dean up a little, just enough to trace his fingers over the back of Sam's hand. "Do me a favor," he mumbles.  
  
Sam makes one more pass over Dean's stomach, balls up the washcloth, and fires it into the bathroom. It hits something with another wet _splat_ followed by a hollow _thud._ Must have hit the bathtub. "Sure," he says.  
  
"That listening to my head thing?" That comes out a little hotter than Dean really intended it to. "I mean... it's kinda cool when we're..." He clears his throat. "...uh, doing it... and it could be handy other times, like if I got in trouble somewhere... but could you try to, y'know, not do it the rest of the time? If you can't, just... don't tell me what you're picking up. 'Kay?"  
  
"'Kay," Sam agrees, reaching down to root around in one of the bags for something. "I'll try not to. But if there's something in your head that's, like, life or death I'm gonna call you on it."  
  
"Fair enough," Dean replies. And he's almost asleep again right away, until something smacks him in the chest.   
  
His Zippo... and a two-week-old pack of Marlboro Reds.   
  
"Figured you might be wanting those," Sam explains.  
  
Unbelievable.   
  
Un. Fucking. Believable.   
  
"Sam!" Dean sits halfway up, shaking his head and trying to work up the energy to be pissed off. "Man, didn't I just tell you--"  
  
"What?" Sam doesn't bat an eye. "Dude, I can _smell._ "  
  
Dean blinks a few times. "......oh."  
  
Sam just passes him the ashtray, stretches out against his side, drapes an arm across his waist, and laughs.  
  
\---  
  
They're on the road by dawn, making up for time lost in fighting and fucking and sleeping instead of putting as many miles between Chicago and the Impala's rear bumper as they can.   
  
Dean can't quite think of it as time wasted.   
  
Like he has so many times before he cuts his eyes to the right and watches Sam sleep next to him, all scrunched down in the seat so he can lay his head back against the leather, hands curled loosely in his lap, legs crossed left-ankle-on-right-knee.   
  
Like he has so many times before he watches Sam sleep and wants to touch him.  
  
He drives and watches and wants until he remembers that he can.  
  
Sam murmurs something soft and pleased and smiles in his sleep when he _does._


End file.
